


and blooming overhead, the parachute (i've got to trust it now)

by knoxoursavior



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: hey,it reads.it's been a few minutes. is anything wrong?not feeling well. rain check?he sends back, and he hates himself for it.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	and blooming overhead, the parachute (i've got to trust it now)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this bc i missed mr akaashi :( anw hmm i added "self-esteem issues" as a tag but to be more specific i think akaashi's still kinda hurting here like he doesn't really view himself in a good light? yea

Keiji stands at an intersection a block away from Onigiri Miya. There’s a cigarette held between his fingers, smoked almost to a stub, and an unread message on his phone from Osamu. He caught a glimpse of it before he pocketed his phone —  _ see you soon!  _ it reads.

It's now three minutes past the time they were supposed to meet, and Keiji's still out here in the cold. Keiji shakes as he takes one last drag of his cigarette, long and deep. Better the smoke filling his lungs than the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the bile rising in his throat at the thought of walking into that restaurant.

It's not because of Osamu. God, no. Osamu is… Osamu's too  _ good _ for him. He deserves better than Keiji, shouldn't even be wasting his time on him.

Keiji's a mess, no matter how put-together he likes to present himself. Underneath the ironed clothes and the concealer, beneath the carefully crafted neutrality on his face, Keiji is barely a person. And Osamu will see that. Maybe not right away, not for a while if Keiji really  _ tries.  _ But he'll see it eventually, and Keiji is painfully familiar with what comes after that.

Keiji throws what's left of his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with the bottom of his shoe. He puts his hands inside his coat pockets, chasing what little of his own body warmth is seeping through the wool fabric. And then he starts to walk — not towards Onigiri Miya, not towards Osamu. Keiji walks back to the station, ignoring his phone when it buzzes again. He doesn't look back, doesn't think about the guilt sitting in his chest, doesn't allow himself anything but to ache for another drag of a cigarette, another fix of nicotine.

It's already dark when he gets home. His apartment is pitch black, cold even after he's closed the door behind him. Keiji stands there in the doorway and finally forces himself to check his messages.

He doesn't know what he expects. A couple missed calls, a couple messages? But instead, other than the one he'd already seen, there's only one new message. Keiji swallows against the disappointment unfurling inside him, and opens it.

_ hey, _ it reads.  _ it's been a few minutes. is anything wrong? _

_ not feeling well. rain check? _ he sends back, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way he could lie and pretend and do so without hesitation. Hates that he actually  _ does _ want another chance. He does want that rain check, the hope that one day he'll go through with it. Maybe,  _ maybe —  _ even though he knows he'll only ruin it in the end. 

Keiji turns off his phone, leaves it face-down on the kitchen counter, and thinks about getting a glass of wine. Just one, just to fill him up with something other than the bile in his throat and the heaviness in his chest. But he’s tired, and it isn’t worth it. If he drinks tonight, he’ll be throwing up all over his floor later. He already feels enough like shit; he doesn’t need that too.

So Keiji heads to bed. He shrugs off his coat, lets it fall onto the floor before he crawls into bed, curling up underneath the sheets. He doesn't even bother to change into something more comfortable, doesn't bother to turn the heater on or to take his glasses off. He just pulls the sheets up over his head, shuts everything out until it's just  _ him.  _ Alone, like he's gotten used to being. Like he should be.

Keiji closes his eyes, and he wishes he could fall asleep until he finally does.

  
  
  


Keiji wakes up the next morning, and it's a slate wiped clean. No lingering dreams, nothing turning in the pit of his stomach. He feels alright enough to get out of bed, and he feels okay enough to pick up his coat from the floor and drop it into the laundry basket. He washes his face, rinses out his mouth, and looks at himself in his bathroom mirror — the dark circles underneath his eyes, the new blemish smarting just above his chin, the red line across his temple where his glasses pressed against his skin all night —

He looks at himself and wonders how he would have woken up today if he’d gone on that date with Osamu last night. Maybe it would have gone well. Maybe he would have walked Osamu to his house at the end of the night, kissed Osamu on his doorstep and set another date then and there. Maybe Keiji didn’t have anything to worry about. Maybe,  _ maybe.  _

But Keiji did what he did, and now he has to deal with it. He takes in a deep breath, holds it in until it hurts, and then he turns away from himself, forces himself to go to the kitchen. He takes his phone from the counter, ignores the way he starts to hear his heartbeat loud in his ears as he turns it on.

There’s one new message from Osamu.

_ sure. :) i hope you feel better soon. _

No questions, nothing that makes Keiji think he’s figured out the truth somehow. And Keiji… Keiji doesn’t know how he feels about it. Relieved maybe, that he’s gotten away with it. Guilty too for the same reason. He feels bile rising in his throat, feels the familiar weight in the pit of his stomach, and before he knows it, he’s out the door with just his keys, his wallet, and his phone in his pockets.

He takes the train, goes back to Onigiri Miya, all while writing and rewriting what he’s going to say to Osamu in his head until it feels right. But then he sees Osamu standing in front of the restaurant and everything that he has rehearsed to himself flies out of his head, forgotten. Keiji stands there, a few paces away from Osamu, frozen. He thinks of running, thinks of calling out to Osamu, wills himself to do  _ anything  _ —

“Osamu,” he says, and he watches as Osamu turns to him, as Osamu takes a step closer, eyebrows furrowing.

“Akaashi? What are you doing here?”

Keiji wonders what he must think. Keiji knows how he looks with his wrinkled clothes and his rumpled hair. But he doesn’t know if he looks enough like he spent the night sick instead of miserable. And if ever it’s obvious he lied about last night — well, that’s his own fault.

So he clenches his fists at his sides, swallows against the instinct to escape. He looks at Osamu head on, “I just wanted to say sorry for last night.”

Osamu smiles, and it’s beautiful. A slight curl of the lips, a barely-there crinkling of his eyes that Keiji carefully commits to memory.

“It’s fine.” Osamu reaches out, curls a hand around Keiji’s shoulder, squeezing. “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yeah,” Keiji says, and he  _ does. _ Now that he’s here, standing in front of Osamu, basking in the brilliance of his smile, he wonders what he was so scared of.

“You could have texted me, you know. You didn’t have to come all this way to say sorry.”

Osamu’s hand leaves Keiji’s shoulder only to fall back to his side, and Keiji resists following, resists leaning into Osamu’s space just to feel close to him again. Keiji realizes then, how odd this must be, that he’d come to Osamu’s restaurant first thing in the morning just to apologize.

_ I wanted to see you,  _ he thinks of saying.  _ I wanted to see what I missed when I got too scared last night. _

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back one, two, three times. Instead, “Sorry, I should get out of your way.”

Osamu reaches out, wraps one hand around Keiji’s wrist. His grip isn’t tight enough to really hold Keiji there, but he stops anyway. He stays where he is, held by Osamu.

“Akaashi,” Osamu says, and there’s that smile of his again. Keiji could die by that smile, and he’d die happily. “Do you wanna come in? I can make you tea or something.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. There’s only one answer, only one way going forward.

“Yes,” Keiji says. “I’d love that.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> my [twt](https://twitter.com/singeiji)!


End file.
